by Ana Mardoll
So I ignore the throbbing ache between my legs and just hold Miyuki close, covering xer forehead and hair with tiny kisses while xie places matching ones on my throat and neck. Eventually xer caresses slow and tail off as xer breathing deepens into an even snore. Sleep, I think at xer. Dream of a better world than this one. A world with beds big enough for both of us, soft as the air around us; one where we can kiss and touch and be together without a dozen drowsy ears listening to every sound we make.
Chapter 16
Keoki
"Three bouts in three cycles is highly unusual, Handler!"
I can hear anger in Matías' voice even as he tries to hide it. I close the door to my room quietly behind me, wishing I hadn't slept through first bell. I'd stupidly stayed up late after mealtime in the hopes that Tony might slip back into my room after everyone else went to bed. He hadn't shown, which meant all I'd gotten from my vigil was a lethargic stupor that dragged me obliviously through first bell, early feeding, and whatever has gotten Matías riled up.
Leaning against my door, I shake my head against an encroaching headache throbbing behind my temples and rub grit from my eyes. Everyone is gathered by the training pit where Handler has parked his food cart for the usual first bell serving. The guys are clumped in a tight group nearby, sitting on the ground or slouched against stalagmites. Nobody looks happy. Matías leans on his cane, standing as close to Handler as anyone ever willingly gets, his expression dark.
"Your concerns are noted, Teacher," Handler says, his sightless gaze settling on the smaller man, who is small only in comparison to the robed creature's stretched frame. "That is why we are not using the same fighters as before; Granite, Obsidian, and Basalt will be excused from the bout and allowed to rest." The perpetual coldness of Handler's voice seems slightly less chilly, and I wonder if the relative warmth is a result of Matías' anger or the reason he feels safe expressing it now.
I strain to listen, slinking closer to hear the argument while trying not to draw attention to myself. I'm only about half-successful in my attempt at stealth; Reese looks up from where he's leaning with his back against a stone pillar, and beckons me over. "Bad news?" I ask him, pitching my voice low. Reese shakes his head at me while making a sour face, which I interpret as 'yes'.
"Handler, it's not as simple as rotation," Matías argues, though his shoulders are already hunched forward in defeat. "The boys need rest, practice, entertainment. Can't the Master reschedule? The match would be better for the wait."
"You know he will not," Handler says flatly. "If rest is what is needed, we shall field Pumice. He has rested through the last eight matches."
I don't know who that is, but the silence from the other guys suddenly gets a lot louder as several of them hold their breath. Which one is Pumice? I wrack my brain; Tony and Christian and I have already been excused, which leaves Lucas, Justin, and Reese. I look up at Reese, whose face is twisted in a pained wince, but he doesn't return my gaze; he's too busy staring at Justin, who watches his feet moodily.
Matías speaks slowly, his voice hoarser than before. "Pumice doesn't play well to a crowd yet. We're still training him."
Handler waves his scarred hand. "Immaterial in this case. The match is a private one; the Master owes a favor to the Lady of the Silent Forest. She wishes to break in a new guardian she has obtained. I imagine she will like Pumice." His eyeless gaze slides to regard Justin, who still stares at his feet. "As pretty as he is, she might even make an offer to the Master for him. That would be a satisfying outcome for everyone."
Matías' shoulders sag further, his gaze trailing away from Handler's face to study the ground. "Make it a pair match," he insists, "like the last bout. He won't be worth offering for if he's hurt or killed. Send in another of my boys, and he can show off without getting wounded."
Handler considers this, the air around him cold with dread. "Do you have any volunteers?"
His question is met with deafening silence. Matías turns to look at us, but the eyes of the others drop away from his searching expression. "Scoria? Breccia?" he whispers, his gaze swiveling between Lucas and Reese.
Reese winces and looks away while Lucas shakes his head. "Not for a private match," he mutters, his eyes trained on the ground. "Not since the one that took Alpha. You saw how brutal that was."
Dude! I manage to stay silent, to not shout at them, but I can feel myself getting angry. Maybe it's not my place to call anyone out; I'm the newbie here, after all, and there's still so much I don't know. Yet I can't deal with the grim defeat on Matías' face, nor with the glum acceptance on Justin's. I'm pissed that the other guys don't want this kid to die but no one is willing to do anything to save him. I don't know what all this talk is about private matches, but I've already beaten two opponents. What's one more?
"If you need another fighter, I'm right here," I volunteer, straightening up against the pillar where I've been leaning.
Every head in the cavern twists to stare at me, which I admit I enjoy, especially since it's the first time Tony has looked my way since I walked in. His face pales and he shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. "No, you're on rest, newbie," he says, his voice sloshing over me like cold water.
"Only if he wants to be," Matías says quickly, relief brightening his face. "He can fight if he feels up to it. How do you feel?"
"It doesn't matter how he feels!" Tony insists, his voice rising enough to echo. "He's only been here for two cycles! He doesn't have the experience to judge whether or not he's up for another fight."
"Dude, I'm right here," I tell him, heat rising in my cheeks. I already wasn't feeling wild about his failure to come back after eating, so listening to him insult me in front of the others isn't helping my mood. "You wanna tell me this stuff to my face?"
He whirls on me, his dark eyes flashing. "Keoki—"
Handler makes a cutting gesture with his hands, silencing the argument. "Enough. The volunteer is accepted. Head to the arena at once."
Beside me, Reese sighs and gives a gentle punch to my upper arm. "You got guts, newbie," he mutters, his usual bright smile faltering into more of a grimace. My gaze is fixed on Tony but he closes his eyes and turns away with a pained expression, unwilling to look at me. So I sigh and fall into step beside Reese, with Justin slouching along behind us as we head for the gates of the arena.
"So what's the big deal about private matches?" I ask as we walk, trying to sound nonchalant.
"You're going to do fine," Matías says, walking alongside. He's moving as quickly as we are, but the pain caused by his bad knee is etched in the furrow of his brow and he stabs the ground hard with his cane at each step. "Private matches are shown to a limited audience, usually just one or two guests and their retinues. They have a reputation for being dangerous because visibility is poor."
"Justin can help with that, can't you?" Reese says, nudging him with his elbow. "It'll be okay. Tony just worries."
He has a funny way of showing it, I think, but I shake off the hurt for now. "Okay, so. Low visibility? Is the sand all kicked up or— whoa!"
If I'd been paying attention, I might have noticed that the corridor from our cavern to the arena was longer than usual, the darkness of the tunnel stretching further than before. As it is, I nearly smack my face into the iron grille of the massive gate which separates our caves from the outside. I'm prevented from breaking my nose by Reese's strong arms, which pull me back before I can collide with the metal.
"Careful! They're just pulling it up now," he admonishes, steadying me as I blink in confusion at the gate which seemed to leap into existence in front of my eyes and is now rising into the air.
Where did that come from? The gate is halfway up, metal screeching against stone, before my brain catches on: there's no sunlight. There's no light outside at all, nothing to illuminate the bars and splash across the ground inside the gate. The sky is completely black. Can it do that? I'd have thought not, but now that it's here before me I'm not so sure. A sunless sky
seems faintly familiar in a way I can't place.
"Be careful out there," warns Matías, looking grave as we step into the void and the gate clatters shut behind Justin and myself.
I take a deep breath and flex my feet, feeling the sand between my toes. Okay, I can do this. This is no different from before. Except Christian and Tony aren't here to help. The latter realization crowds into my brain too late to be helpful. In my rush to save Justin, I'd forgotten that my last two victories were more like me assisting the real victor. But that's okay, I'm practically a veteran now.
I turn to Justin, surprised to be able to see him; he's not sharply defined, but there's a glow on his skin that provides a hazy outline in the darkness. "Where's that light coming from?" I ask, blinking.
"Tower seats," he mutters, gesturing over my shoulder. I whirl on my heel to catch a silvery glow swelling to bright life in the sky, a light strangely familiar to my eyes. Shapes appear within the light: the distant outline of girls, the unearthly white giant who presides over our fights, and something which looks more like a rotten tree than a person, moving at a slow pace about the tower to peer into the arena below.
"What kind of lady is that?" The rash words are out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to catch up, and I hope they can't hear us from this distance. "Uh, never mind," I amend, turning back to Justin. "Okay, what is it you do? Reese said you could help with the darkness?" The silvery light is just enough to illuminate his face but little else; the pillars dotting the arena throw thick shadows, perfect for lurking. I think of the poison-spitter and try not to shudder at the thought of tracking someone like him in these conditions.
Justin makes a face at my question, his shoulders hunched in a defensive posture. "You're not gonna like it," he warns. He extends his hand into the empty air in front of him, palm up and open.
I wonder if I'm supposed to slap his hand or otherwise respond to this gesture. But he doesn't look at me; instead, he stares at his palm as concentration knits his brow. I follow his gaze and my eyes widen at the bizarre sight that greets me: the skin on his open hand is bulging and bubbling into little hills and valleys. Half a dozen thick pustules sprout, each of them filled almost to bursting with pus. The effect is super gross and kinda cool in an icky way, but not something I want to touch.
The strange pustules are also glowing. They throb with inner colors that shine through his skin: white and red and yellow and blue and green and a sort of pinkish-purple color I couldn't name if I tried. In the span of a few heartbeats, six separate bubbles have puffed up in his hand: each the size of an eyeball and rounded off at the bottom until the skin attaching them to his palm is so thin that it seems no thicker than a thread. "Dude," I breathe, my voice low in the dark, "what are those?"
"Lights," he mutters. With a flick of his wrist, the little yellow bubble snaps off his hand and flips to the ground. An explosion of color dazzles my eyes when the pustule hits the sand, leaving me rubbing away the afterimage. Sun yellows, sand yellows, bright yellows, soft yellows; every shade of yellow I can imagine bursts from the bubble. The part of my mind that isn't dwelling on our imminent deaths wonders how a tiny thing like that could contain such multitudes; I'd be impressed if I weren't so confused.
"Lights?" I stare at the golden sparkles that glitter in the sand around us. The force of their initial explosion is spent, but many of the specks still smolder with inner light. The smaller ones on the far edges of the explosion flicker and wink as they die out one by one, but the bigger clumps near the center of the blast radiate lingering light and warmth, tiny wisps of steam dancing in the air above them. "Are they hot?"
Justin shrugs. "They sting if you touch them."
That's it? Why would anyone put this kid in a fight? I don't give voice to my thoughts but the question shows in my eyes, highlighted by yellow embers coating the ground and the remaining baubles glowing brightly in his hand, even as his long fingers curl protectively over them.
"I was payment in a gambling debt," he volunteers, looking surly. "They tossed me into my first fight expecting me to die. I threw sparks into the guy's face and he stumbled. Fell off the platform we were running on and broke his neck. Didn't really count as a proper kill, but I survived; so here I am."
About to die again. He doesn't say it, but the grim certainty is etched in the hunch of his shoulders. I swallow, pressing down my own fears; not only am I out here without any help this time, but I have to keep this kid alive.
"Okay," I tell him, taking a deep breath. "We can do this. We can make this work. Look, how fast can you make more of those?"
"The lights? Pretty fast. Just need to pick off the last batch." He looks down at the glowing baubles attached to his hand by thin threads of skin; with his free hand he pinches them away to make room for more. "Want one? Anyone can throw them; air or ground, doesn't matter."
He holds out the red bubble and I take it gingerly between my fingers, unsettled at being offered a piece of his body. It doesn't feel like skin; the texture is a thin webbing surrounding tiny pebbles that jostle each other in their desire to escape. I wonder how hard I would have to squeeze to pop the casing, but I'm in no mood to burn myself.
"Cool. Here's the plan," I announce, trying to sound like I've got the situation under control. "We'll get to the platforms and find a weapon. A sword or whatever. You keep making lights and throwing them to light our way. If anything rushes us, throw lights in its face and we'll run."
He looks skeptical at my plan, but nods and moves a little closer to me. "You lead," he mutters, a fresh glow prickling in his hand as more bubbles ripple from his skin.
Pushing away my fear, I set out for the nearest spire. The pillar stabs high into the black sky, only faintly outlined by the silver glow above us. It's unsettling to creep through the arena like this; the silence weighs heavily and every shadow threatens to vomit forth monsters as we pass. The only sounds are the popping explosions of light Justin throws ahead and around us as we walk, lighting our path in the dark.
We're only a few steps from the bottom of the spire when I spot it: beady eyes glinting from the darkness and a thick shag of matted hair that sucks up every glint of light and returns emptiness. "There!" I hear my own shout from a distance, my hand whipping around in a tight arc. The red bubble hisses as it flies through the air and explodes in the face of the creature, crimson sparks flying in an explosion of light.
It howls, pain and anger mingling in an inhuman cry that echoes through the arena. An outline forms under the red sizzling sparks that coat its face and body: a monster on all fours, with long limbs and an elongated snout. Teeth glint in the light and wicked claws dig into the sand. The creature hurls itself at us and I brace for the impact, my arms outstretched to grab and throw; if I'm lucky, I can use its momentum against itself and buy time for us to run.
My fingers sink into coarse fur, but any hope I have of throwing the monster dies instantly: it's heavy. A mass of muscle and fury barrels into me with more power than I can shift. The creature swipes me aside with a single blow of its paw, claws digging into my belly. A gush of blood coats my stomach, shiny and black in the glow of the tower. I'm thrown stumbling away, my hands clutching at the wound, my head spinning. Then I hear Justin scream and the ugly wet sound of claws tearing through flesh.
No! I whirl around but a fresh wave of vertigo causes me to make one revolution too many. Blood spills over my fingers and my vision blurs. I hear thrashing in the darkness and screams, then I smell more blood than my own. Justin!
I take a stumbling step towards the violence—I don't know what I can do, but I've got to try—when I'm blinded by an explosion of noise and color. I fall back, blinking, as another howl of pain rips through the arena followed by the sound of feet stumbling on rocky sand. One last swipe at my eyes clears away the dancing spots and I see Justin running in the silvery light, badly wounded and stumbling with every step. The creature gallops behind him, waving its head and howling in fury.
It's bli
nd, I realize, taking in the bright sparkles coating every inch of its face. Justin must have set off all his bubbles at once in its face as it mauled him. If he had his hands up to ward the thing away, it would have been the easiest way to wound it and escape.
Yet his talent wasn't enough to kill it, only slightly slow it down. The earlier plan flashes through my mind like a talisman: Find a weapon, kill the creature, don't die.
I turn on my heel, running as fast as I can towards the platform, hoping that Justin can stay ahead of the creature long enough for me to come to his aid. Even blinded, it runs after him unerringly and my mind worries at this as my hands scramble at the stone in search of a blade. Can it hear him? Surely not after that explosion, which left my own ears ringing. No, it's almost like it can—
Smell him. The answer burns into my mind as brightly as one of Justin's flashes. The creature can smell him—can smell the smoke and fire he makes. That's why it ran past me and leaped on him when I threw the first explosion in its face. It couldn't hunt by sight in the aftermath, but it could by scent.
I set that thing on him. The realization hits me as my hands close on a heavy club hidden in one of the holes of the spire, relief and guilt flooding me in equal measure. I yank it out and the dark wood glints in the silvery light. It's made from the same material as the cane Matías uses, but is much thicker and shaped with a round end for bludgeoning. I whirl on the platform, running as hard as I can, a fresh giddiness washing through me. I don't know how to use a sword like Tony, but I can use this.
Screams orient me to a nearby scuffle; Justin must have tried to double back to reach me. I see the dark shape of the creature mauling a body that thrashes in the sand, but I don't look too closely or listen or think of the smells. My senses sharpen into a focus that leaves nothing in my world except me, the monster, and the club in my hand. I leap, screaming and swinging, and feel the satisfying crunch of bone. I hear a howl and then another, interspersed with the thud of my club and the thrumming sensation in my arm.